Cain
by takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Tommy's no innocent, no faultless victim, but he's still family, and family looks after its own. Spoilers for 3.04 and 3.05


He's so still. The brace is gone, thank god, but his head is a mess of cuts and stitches and crudely shorn off patches of hair, and his face—

She pulls a cigarette from her case and lights it with hands that hardly shake at all.

 _He's alive_ , she reminds herself sternly. _He's alive, and he'll be all right, so there's no call for hysteria._

He looks dead, though. So pale and sunken-eyed, so still. So _fucking_ still.

Ada had been the one to take him to the hospital, and had been the one to call, after. To call and tell her that his skull was split, that he was bleeding into his brain as well as his body, that he'd fallen unconscious and couldn't be woken up. That the doctors didn't know how well he'd recover. Didn't know if he'd recover at all.

It hadn't been real, at first. Hadn't been real over the 'phone, hadn't been real when Ada burst through the door and into her arms, sobbing and fighting with fury and fear. Hadn't been real the first time she went to visit him, when a grim-faced doctor had told her that Mr Shelby wasn't well enough for visitors, and could she come back in a week? It hadn't been real until she lay eyes on him for the first time and saw the metal rods immobilizing his head and neck, saw the bald patches on his scalp struck through with angry red gashes and straining black stitches, saw the way he lay so still, so very still, like he would never move again.

And then, even then, even at the very moment that it finally became real to her that her nephew had been attacked with the savagery and violence of a wild animal and may never be the same again, her first fucking thought had been to thank the lord almighty that it was him and not Michael.

If there's anything she'll never forgive herself for, it's that. And if there's anything she'll never admit to, it's that as well.

She's been by twice every week so far. Some of the visits have been good – he recognizes her, and can speak to her even if he forgets words sometimes – but too many have been unfulfilling. He's unconscious more often than not, and if he's awake then he's sick and in pain. Head injuries are serious, and slow to heal. Light hurts him, noise hurts him, words hurt him, thinking hurts him. Sometimes she just sits by his bed in the dark and holds his hand while he lies there in silence, eyes closed, barely even breathing. It's the least she can do, and the most.

When he can bear it, she speaks to him in Romani, adopting the cadences she's heard him use to soothe troubled horses. Her fingers itch to comb through his hair, to smooth it back the way she did in the long-ago days of childhood hurts, but that desire is foolish for too many reasons to count.

He's a grown man.

He chose this life.

He's not a child.

He wouldn't want her pity.

He wouldn't want her touch.

He's so damaged.

He's so fragile.

It makes her blood boil.

Today is the first time she sees him without the brace, and while he looks less like an insect pinned to a tray, he looks just as corpse-like as always. The doctors tell her that he's been sleeping a lot in the past days, but that it's a good sleep, a healing sleep. He needs rest, and she's glad he's getting some, but he's pale and motionless and sunken and _fuck_ the men who did this to him, _fuck_ him for not telling her the kind of trouble he was in, and _fuck_ her for thinking that at least it isn't Michael.

How long did she care for Thomas as her son? For how many years were her nephews her children, her niece her daughter, to teach and protect with a firm hand and bared, snarling teeth? It worries her sometimes, how easily they've been replaced in her heart. It worries her to think that all those years meant nothing, and now all she can do is thank god that it's one son lying injured and unconscious and not another.

 _Look after Thomas_ , she used to say, _for he has so many people relying on him_.

 _Look after Thomas_ , she says now, _for he has taken more weight than he can bear upon his shoulders, and he did it all alone_.

She settles back in the chair and takes a long drag on her cigarette.

"Oh, Thomas," she says into the silence. He doesn't stir, but she's used to that by now. "What a fucking mess we're in. What a fucking mess."

* * *

 _I got into this show (and finished it) about a week ago, so this is me dipping my toes in the water._

 _I generally allow myself one impulse-post per fandom, which is why this is so short and un-shiny, but their relationship at this point in the show is really conflicted and confusing and I wanted to explore it a little bit._

 _Thank you for reading, and please feel free to share your thoughts!_


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